Behind the Uniform
by D. Jamal Tugimora
Summary: Oil. It was all about oil. An embargo had been put in place, and Sotoa had it all; Osea could not sustain itself. The now inevitable conflict could have been prevented had AOMA kept to themselves. War was bound to occur. It was simply a matter of when.
1. The Mess Hall

Hey everyone. This is an original story, a world war, taking place in 2016. All will be explained in le prologue. I'm making the countries and languages of Ace Combat relate directly to the real world. They are organized as so:

Osean Federation: United States - Emmerian (American and Canadian English)

Yuktobania: Russia/USSR - Yuktobanian (Russian)

Emmeria: United Kingdom/Canada/France - Emmerian, Frankish (British/Canadian English, French)

Belka: Germany - Belkan (German)

Minzoku: Japan – Minzokan (Japanese)

Sotoa: China – Sotoan (Mandarin Chinese)

Hangura (North, South): Korea – Hanguran (Korean)

Sapin: Spain - Sapinish (Spanish)

Ustio: Switzerland/Sweden/Austria/Poland - Mostly Belkan; also Emmerian and Frankish

Estovakia: Based off the Ukraine - Estovakian (Slavic Language/Ukrainian)

Aurelia: Argentina/Peru/Brazil – Sapinish, Portuguese

Leasath: Colombia/Venezuela – Sapinish

Adamas Islands: Caribbean (Puerto Rico, Jamaica, etc.) - Sapinish, Emmerian, Frankish, etc.

Ratio: Portugal – Ratiguese (Portuguese)

The rest of the Osean continent east of Osea and Usea: Roughly Europe – Assorted

The rest of the Verusean continent west and south of Yuktobania: Roughly Asia and Oceania, respectively - Assorted

South Osean Continent (everything south of Osean Federation): Latin/South/Central America – Sapinish, Ratiguese

Africa is oddly missing

Antarctica: Antartica

To see a map with these countries (not mine, but edited by me), go here: .com/albums/v404/Virtro/Ace%

So since they relate to a real world country, so will their influence, culture, and military. For example, Yuktobania will not have any F-16s or A-10s; rather, MiG-29s and Su-25s. Emmeria and Belka will have things like the Tornado and Typhoon, while Osea will have the F-15 and F-22…understand? Also, this is not a story about Cipher, Galm, Mobius, Blaze, Wardog/Razgriz, Talisman, Garuda or any of them, though they will be mentioned and/or featured (Garuda) in the conflict.

Of course, the disclaimer: I DO NOT own anything Ace Combat related, nor do I own any of the planes, tanks, etc. I do, however, take claim to my story and characters, as this work IS legally published, and I would like anyone interested in using my ideas/characters/whatever to email and ask first.

**Prologue**

Brushing the hair from his eyes, Capt. Ledge Simon Tale allowed an obnoxious sigh to escape from his mouth. A month on leave was not a good idea; laziness set in, and hard. He had let his hair grow out, he hadn't exercised for weeks, and he'd gotten used to sleeping in until 1PM. He still had about 13 days left until he was to return to Emmeria. Being stationed overseas didn't make much sense to him. Why have an aircraft with global range stationed on foreign soil? Lazily reaching for the remote, Ledge, or "Simon" as he was known, powered on the television. Static filled his ears as the set seemed to struggle. A loud crack resonated throughout the room, and an ancient anchorman appeared onscreen. To his right was an image of the flag of Sotoa, a country to the west of Yuktobania about the size of Estovakia.

"......the People's Republic of Sotoa has announced that they do indeed have nuclear weapons. I repeat, Sotoa has been confirmed as a nuclear power."

"Ahh….shit."

"Officials also say that they are 'not afraid' to use nuclear weapons against the Osean Federation and allies if necessary."

The Osean Federation had been the one world's two superpowers for decades, in a political tie with the Union of Yuktobanian Republics; however, the Circum-Pacific War six years ago had weakened both countries considerably. Both navies had been nearly completely devastated and their air forces had been considerably damaged as well, particularly during the latter parts of the war. After the Belkans had been revealed as the real aggressors and the heads-of-state had reappeared, confusion had set in amongst both countries. Some joined forces to attack the Belkans, some joined forces to ironically attack the "traitors", and some went AWOL altogether.

In the end, both countries emerged considerably weakened both economically and militarily. Both had to rebuild their armed forces (Osea had lost all four of its carriers and its entire 3rd Fleet while Yuktobania had suffered the lost entire divisions of aircraft), and peace-loving heads-of-state did not make the situation any easier. Yuktobania, perhaps, had a bit of an advantage; with the world's largest forest and mineral reserves, the Yukes' economy bounced back quickly and their military reaped the benefits, while the Osea had a harder time.

The peace between the two countries, initially, was supported heavily throughout, though the support was superficial. Officials and military leaders were still wary of the enemy. Gradually, tensions relaxed as time passed. By 2015, both countries had rebuilt themselves almost up to pre-war strength. They opted to stay out of the Anean Continental War when Estovakia invaded Emmeria.

That, of course, was a year ago, and was the complete opposite of the current situation.

The People's Republic of Sotoa was a country to the west of Yuktobania. Sotoa currently had one of the world's most rapidly increasing economies, rivaling that of Emmeria and Minzoku, an island nation to the west, as well as one of the largest militaries by number of troops. A communist nation, Sotoa was not exactly on the best of terms with the highly democratic Osea and her allies.

Sotoa's biggest ally was perhaps the Democratic People's Republic of Hangura (more commonly known as North Hangura), also a communist state. With an equally powerful military, the alliance was indeed a force to be reckoned with. It was widely known that North Hangura failed to get along with neither their far eastern neighbors nor their southern counterparts, the Republic of Hangura (South Hangura), the latter of which were allied with Osea.

It was also a very poorly kept secret that Yuktobania supplied the "commies", as the Oseans called them, with equipment. Yuktobania, once communist itself, was notorious for such actions toward enemies of Osea (including the Belkans before the 1995 Belkan War), and this was another reason why Oseans, military and civilian alike, were generally untrusting of Yukes. Emmeria, Minzoku, Aurelia, and South Hangura (historically Osean allies) were also against the communist countries, working closely with Osea to gather intelligence and defend against the aggressive countries if necessary. Yuktobania, on the other hand, had repeatedly expressed its wish to stay "neutral".

And now, with Sotoa's declaration as a nuclear power, Simon was sure things would heat up very quickly.

"President Gonzalez," the news anchor droned, "has publicly expressed his disbelief and desire to avoid war with Sotoa, calling the declaration 'absurd' and a surprise attack on Osea or her allies "unthinkable'."

"Yeah, right," said Simon aloud. "He knows what's gonna happen."

War was just on the horizon.

* * *

**Chapter One: The Mess Hall  
**  
15 FEB 2016  
Vitoze Joint Air Base, Khesed Island, Emmeria  
1527 hours

"I love you, too, baby. Bye."

Simon hung up the phone in disgust. The last thing he had wanted was for his leave to end, and he had a feeling that his wife felt the same way. Or maybe not. Frowning, he arose from his chair, his rear end sore from hours of stationary work and paper-pushing. He hadn't been flying since he arrived back at Vitoze two weeks earlier, and he was eager to return to the skies ASAP.

Glancing at the clock, Simon lazily dragged his jacket from his chair. He stared into his reflection in his window, his hazel eyes staring back at him, and then shifting to his now short blonde hair. He put on the thin, not-going-to-help-whatsoever windbreaker, realizing that the jacket made him appear rather chubby as opposed to his true thin but stocky build. This was the very reason he lived in South Osea; he loathed the cold. It never did much good for anyone, did it? A waste, in his opinion.

Of course, his opinion didn't matter much.

His initial step into the bitter cold soured his mood even further than it already was. His scalp was more exposed than it was a few weeks ago, and the thin, flimsy flight caps issued by the Air Force did nothing to shield his freezing cranium.

_That's what I get for not buying a combination cover._

A short walk and three salutes later, Simon arrived at the mess hall. He hurried inside, immediately assaulted by the delectable fumes of slow cooked beef-and-vegetable stew and various side dishes. The place was warm, a welcome feeling for anyone who'd been in the frigidness of the outside in short-sleeve dress blues and a thin jacket like he had been just a few seconds prior. Simon wasted no time grabbing a tray and piling it high with various warm, tasty foodstuffs. With a notoriously high metabolism, Simon was well-known for his ability to "out-eat" any of superiors or subordinates, even at his tender age of thirty-three.

Simon made his way to an empty booth in the east corner of the mess hall and almost instantaneously began to eat as soon as he was seated. After a few minutes, a voice broke his impenetrable concentration on his voracious food consumption.

"Oi, mate, do you mind if I sit there with you?"

Simon looked up, his eyes landing on a young, black haired, tan skinned flight lieutenant in a green flight suit with Emmerian patches. His hair had the distinction of sticking out in the front left a bit, with that particular patch of hair longer than the rest. Simon wasn't sure if the young pilot intentionally had his hair trimmed that way, and he didn't particularly care at this point.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I t-thought you were someone else," said the man in a strange Emmerian accent.

"It's fine, Lieutenant," Simon replied. "You can sit here, if you'd like."

"Are you sure?"

"Are you going to sit here or not?"

The lieutenant sat opposite of Simon. He could tell that this young officer was a bit nervous, as he tried not to make eye-contact. The lieutenant began to eat quietly.

"What's your name, Lieutenant?" Simon asked.

"Uh...Flight 'Leftenant' V-Virtro Dmitry Tugimora, No. 13 Squadron, Royal Emmerian Air Force."

"You do realize I only asked for your name."

"Sorry, sir."

"You're a fighter pilot?"

"Yes, sir. No. 13 Squadron. F-16 Block 40. We're in the middle of a transition, but our new aircraft aren't here yet. Six of our planes were destroyed in an accident a few weeks ago. Trainee stalled, dropped, and SMACK!" Virtro banged the desk with his fist, causing people around them to glance over. "Right onto the damned hangar. Bloody horrible. Biggest damned accident in Emmerian history! So now we're mixed with spare Mirages from Sipli."

"Again, I asked one question."

"Uhh….my apologies, sir. I get carried away sometimes."

"No kidding."

Virtro scoffed.

"Where are you from, Lieutenant? You have a different accent than most Emmerians."

"Well, I was born in San Loma, sir."

"I've never heard San Lomans speak like that."

"My dad is originally from Minzoku, and my mother is from Yuktobania. I speak all three languages. Fluently."

"And you wanted to be a pilot? You would've had one hell of a career in Linguistics, you know."

"So I've been told, sir, but it just felt right to follow in my father's footsteps. Besides, I'd take an office with a bird's view over flying a desk any day."

"No argument here," Simon murmured, taking a sip of his tea. "I haven't flown since I've been back because my plane's bein' overhauled." Simon noticed Virtro seemed to be warming up, so to speak, to him. He also noticed that Virtro talked a lot, and rather quickly, when nervous.

"You're a fighter pilot, too, sir?"

"Uh, not exactly. Air Battle Manager."

"Oh, AWACS, I see. I heard it was like a desk job, just in the air."

"You might want to check your sources, Lieutenant."

Virtro chuckled, smiling. "Will do, sir."

Into Simon's view appeared another figure, this one a tanned female with jet-black hair pulled tightly into a low bun. She was just slightly darker than Virtro and about his height. Her soft-looking skin, voluptuous lips and rounded jaw line contrasted sharply with piercing brown eyes and elegant brows, yet seemed to fit flawlessly. She also wore the same patches on her forest green flight suit that Virtro did, showing that she was also an Emmerian fighter pilot. Her voice, however, betrayed her ethnicity.

"Sir," the woman said, "do you mind?" She motioned towards the table. She spoke with a thick Sapinish accent.

"Not at all."

The woman seated herself next to Virtro in the booth. They appeared to know each other.

Virtro took it upon himself to introduce the woman. "Sir, this is 1st 'Leftenant' Isabel Susana Álvarez, my flight lead."

_I'm sure she's fully capable of introducing herself,_ Simon thought.

"I think I can introduce myself," Isabel told Virtro, as if ripping the thought from Simon's mind.

"Eh…sorry," the pilot apologized. "Just being polite."

"You're from Sapin?" Simon queried.

"_Sí_," she responded in Sapinish. "My father and I emigrated to Emmeria when I was 15."

"I see."

Simon enjoyed his meal and conversation with his newfound acquaintances for another 10 minutes before he had to return to his office. He found himself pleasantly content for the rest of the day; these were the first people he really sat down and spoke to since he'd been stationed in Emmeria, unlike the countless blockhead commanders and big wigs he had to report to, or the nervous recruits and enlisted who couldn't salute with out soiling themselves. Or, at least, that's how he saw it.

Again, that probably didn't mean much at all.


	2. A Return to the Skies

One review so far. Hope to get some more. Here's chapter Two.

* * *

**Chapter Two: A Return to the Skies  
**  
18 FEB 2016  
Vitoze Joint Air Base, Khesed Island, Emmeria  
1325 hours

Maybe it was obvious. Maybe someone had stamped it on his forehead. Maybe he subconsciously sent out a memo. Whatever had happened, Captain Simon Tale didn't care. His unbelievably happy mood seemed to have rubbed off on everyone onboard. Now that he was in the air again, everything seemed better. He'd missed it all; the comfortable green flight suit; the headset tight around his head; the strong smell of oil, metal, and jet fuel; all of the indistinct and incoherent chatter of the various aircrew; and _especially_ his commanding presence among his subordinates. Simon strolled over to one of the many radar stations in which a young, auburn haired woman, no older than nineteen, worked diligently, almost completely unaware of Simon's presence.

"Where are they?" Simon said loudly, intentionally startling the young crewmember. He saw her jump a bit as she quickly turned around to greet him. The first thing he noticed were her eyes; wide and olive green, they seemed to suck him in. Although he was locked on her eyes, his peripherals caught a good image of her rounded face. Her skin was pale and she had a hint of freckles around her the middle of her face. Her eyebrows were relatively flat, though they did arch upwards a bit away from her eyes. Her nose was just as small and rounded as her face, and there was a small hint of a hole near the bridge of her nose on the left nostril, showing that she at least used to have a nose piercing. Her ears were small as well, with a single plain, silver stud in each. The girl's auburn hair was pulled tightly into a bun, with one long strand of hair in her face. Simon found himself allowing his mind to wander and fantasize about her. He could just imagine her unzipping her flight suit, pulling the fabric off of her soft, curvy frame, and emerging from their dark, green prison, her supple, rounded –

"What can I help you with, _sir_?" asked the girl for the third time.

"Wha – oh! Uh, yeah, um….what…..where are they, again? _Phénix_ squadron?"

The girl turned around in her chair and typed onto her keyboard. Simon watched over her shoulder, feeling relieved that she couldn't read minds….or could she?

"They've just taken off, sir. They're on their way to the bomb range."

"Alright. Thank you."

Simon walked away quickly towards the cockpit, shaking his head rather violently. _For god's sake, man, _his brain shouted at him, _she's not a day over twenty! You sicken me, you filthy, disgusting – _

_She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen!_

_That may be so, but you're married, in love, and, most importantly, a Captain in the Osean Air Force! She's _enlisted_!_ _They court martial for crap like this, you know._

_But she's legal!_

_Are you not listening? YOU'RE MARRIED!!_

_You're right. I love my wife, I love my wife, I love my wife_.....

And with that, Simon's good mood was officially over.

* * *

"_Phénix_ 8, you are cleared for take off." The loud, static-filled voice of the air traffic controller broke the relative silence that had descended over Virtro's cockpit.

"Copy that, tower. See ya when I get back."

Virtro shoved the throttle forward, his single F110 engine screaming with power. He took off the parking brake and was soon streaking down the runway. At about 200 knots, he pulled the side-mounted stick towards him, and his Falcon lifted from the earth into the clear blue sky, although noticeably heavier with the three 1,000-pound dumb bombs hanging off the pylons under his wing. He wanted to shout in joy, as if it were his first time (flying, that is) again. The base became smaller and smaller in the distance as his F-16 climbed higher and higher. He felt his entire body being pushed back into his seat as his fighter gained speed. Under his helmet and oxygen mask, he smiled wildly, the thrill of flight rushing throu —

"_Phénix_ 8, are you up yet?!"

The voice startled Virtro, who was lost in semi-fantasy. "Wha – huh?"

"_Phénix_ 8, snap _zouttovit_!" That damned annoying voice belong to the squad commander, Major Dominic Renault, callsign: Hazard, a Franko-Emmerian from Sipli. The squadron members had cleverly thought up the nickname "Major Hazard" due to Renault's risky flying style and boisterous personality. Not much was known about him besides the fact that he had fought in the last war, but what was already known about him was more than anyone actually cared to know in the first place. _Actually,_ Virtro thought, _he's probably been telling us this whole time_…._we just can't understand that retarded accent of his_.

"Virtro," said a much softer voice in a much more pleasant accent, "do you see me?"

Scanning the skies, Virtro caught sight of a blue Mirage 2000 with the number 076 painted on the vertical stabilizer.

"Affirmative, _Phénix _7, I see you."

"Roger that."

At this speed, Virtro risked overshooting the entire squadron, and so reduced his throttle gently enough so as to not pass them, but still had enough power to fall in line with his flight lead, Lt. Álvarez. He smiled, happy to be back in the sky, even if it was just another training mission. Virtro suddenly cringed as he developed a rather bothersome itch near the small of his back, frustrated that he couldn't relieve the annoyance due to being strapped into the seat. In addition, he'd failed to make use of the five extra minutes after the mission briefing and take a trip to the loo (opting instead to grab a drink from the vending machine) and so had an unusually full bladder. This normally wouldn't be a problem. However, he also managed to forget to bring relief bags with him into the cockpit.

It couldn't get any better than this!

"Alright." Hazard's annoying voice. "Once we arrive into the airspace, flight leads are to break from formation, just like the briefing. Understood?"

His squadron mate's voices confirmed the order. Virtro wished they were already over the airspace, but that was to take another hour or so. Another hour of level flight, annoying voices, flight plan reviewing, painful itching, butt sore-ness, and a rupturing bladder.

_I love this job!_

Virtro took extra care to keep up with Isabel. Last time he'd accidentally lost all visual contact with her and couldn't even find her on his radar, only reforming with her after guidance from the AWACS. She flew effortlessly, as if the g-forces and limitations of her plane didn't exist. She was born to fly, he concluded. Her grasp of flight and ease in which she used her skill made Virtro subconsciously jealous, though he consistently denied the fact to himself. As her wingman, it was his job to follow her without question and without difficulty. He was to be on her left wing unless otherwise specified by either her or Major Hazard. Loosing her position in mid-flight was absolutely unacceptable, by any standards.

After nearly 45 minutes, a different voice came over the comm. "This is AWACS Panorama." Virtro recognized the voice as Capt. Simon Tale's, the man he'd became friends with in the mess hall. "All planes, enemy targets 20 kilometers east of current position. Alter flight vector accordingly."

"_Phénix_ 8." Isabel's transmitted voice filled his helmet, "Stay on my wing. We're coming up on the target."

"Wilco," Virtro replied, confirming the order.

Isabel's plane banked to starboard and Virtro followed in sequence. He could see the underbelly of her Mirage, with four 500-pound dumb bombs hanging off of the pylons. Her plane had more wing area due to the Mirage's delta wing configuration, and therefore seemed to have more space for weapons. However, the F-16 had a more powerful engine and could carry more weight, as opposed to a higher quantity.

After a few more minutes flying toward the target, Virtro lowered his altitude as Isabel lowered hers. The target was coming up fast. He armed his bombs and kicked in left rudder. His craft drifted slowly away from Isabel's Mirage. The individual targets were in clusters, and the clusters were in rows. Four clusters were in the row that Isabel was headed toward, while there were only three in his row. Isabel's fighter became smaller and smaller as the gap between them widened. He dropped altitude even more, streaking only 700 feet above the earth at nearly 475 knots.

_And here's the best part of being a fighter pilot_.

Virtro couldn't help but smile as the pipper on his heads-up-display fell on top of the first cluster of "enemy" tanks. He practically finger-punched the release button that was situated on the top of his side-mounted control stick. "Bombs away," he said through the radio. He was apparently the first to drop ordinance, as the others repeated his words a few seconds later. Virtro released subsequent bombs in the same manner, and, after the last bomb was dropped, banked to starboard, back toward his flight lead. He couldn't help himself, and so looked upward through the top of his canopy, as his craft was sideways, and watched the last bomb hit target. The wall of fire glistened off of the instruments within his cockpit, perhaps re-torching the already burnt out practice tank. The now even happier lieutenant eventually found his way back to Isabel's side, though again not without difficulty.

"Bombing run completed," confirmed Capt. Tale's voice, "_Phénix_, return to base."

"_Phénix_ 8, roger," Virtro replied when it came his turn to confirm the orders after the rest of the squad. He contently followed Isabel back into formation as they made their way back to Vitoze.

* * *

Simon didn't get back to base until later that evening; all types of training exercises were going on that day, from C-17 airdrops to fighter-bombing to interception, and his AWACS had to be there from start to finish. In addition, he was also required to debrief the entire aircrew, write up citations and/or recommendations, and write the report on the mission. He stumbled onto his bed, his exhausted body too lazy to reposition itself.

His mind began to wander again, and the first thing he thought of was that young crewmember. Emily Sophia Weaver was her name. An Airman 1st Class. He'd been thinking about her beauty all day, and was assaulted by his conscience every time afterward. _You're fourteen years her senior!_ his mind would tell him. He kept looking in her direction during flight, landing, debriefing…and was relieved when he was finally on his way home, away from her. What began as the best day he'd had since the year started ended as one of the most confusing and bothersome days he'd had in awhile. Simon forced himself to get out of the bed and dragged himself over to the telephone. He picked it up, put it to his ear, and began dialing a familiar number. _555-527-16 –_

Simon quickly hung up the phone, staring at it. A frowned distorted his face as he glanced at the clock. 2146 hours.

She wouldn't be home. He walked away in disgust, unzipping his flight suit. A sweaty odor punched him in his nose, distorting his face even more. He removed all of his clothes, not bothering to put them away, and made his way to his bathroom, and stepped in the shower. His face returned to normal when the hot water greeted his fatigued body, and a hint of a smile crept onto his mouth. As he proceeded to wash himself, he concluded that the day still wasn't as bad as it could have been. He could've walked in on his wife with another man.

Oh, wait. That'd already happened.

If that was the case, then why wasn't he allowed to pursue other people? Because he had two silver bars upon each shoulder? Because he was legally bounded to one woman, who had not been loyal to him, lied to him after he'd caught her, dared him to try and get a divorce, and threatened to take half of his earnings? He decided that it was because he was the better person. Yeah, that was it. Obviously.

Not that it mattered.

* * *

And there you have it. Read and review, _por favor_. The more reviews I have, the happier it makes me, and the more eager I am to work. Chapter Three should be up sometime this week, so checkback frequently. _Annyeong!_


	3. Ground Pounders

**Chapter Three: Ground Pounders  
**  
19 FEB 2016  
Rocosas, Aurelia  
0723 hours

Pulling up to the sidewalk, Sgt. Azrael Florenzo brought his forest green SUV to a complete stop. He looked over his shoulder, watching his daughter grab her backpack. Her pink dress complimented her tan skin tone and jet black hair, as well as her brown eyes – features common in both of her parents. His wife, basically an older version of his daughter, in the passenger seat, handed the little girl her lunchbox.

"_Aquí tienes__,__cariña_," his wife, Cristina, said, affectionately calling her "darling".

"I'll be here to pick you up after school," Azrael said, also in Sapinish. "I love you."

"_Te amo, mamá,_" the girl replied. She was no older than six."_Te amo, papá._"

After initially struggling to open the door, the young girl hopped out of the rather high truck, landing loudly on her feet. Closing the door, she blew a kiss to her parents, turned around, and disappeared into the sea of school children.

Azrael couldn't help but smile as he pulled from the sidewalk and back onto the open road.

"I can't believe the school year's already halfway over!" Cristina exclaimed in their native tongue. "It went by so fast!"

"That's what happens when you get old," Azrael replied. "Things go by so fast….let's hope training today goes by fast. They said I didn't have to come in until 8."

"Honey, when are you going to retire?" she said quickly.

"Cristina, we've talked about this. I can't just discharge myself. I have another year."

"Why can't you just resign?! I don't like this whole deal with Sotoa; I don't want you going to war."

"Baby, stop worrying. They're not going to try anything. I'll be out before you know it, and Margarita will be in the 2nd grade. Trust me, everything is going to be fine."

Azrael saw a slight smile creep upon Cristina's face with his peripheral vision. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "If you say so, honey."

"I do. We'll be fine."

It made him sick to his stomach, lying to his wife's face like he was. He knew things weren't going to be fine. Sotoa had been declared as a nuclear power, North and South Hangura was in an arms race, and the Anean-Osean Military Alliance [known as the AOMA (pronounced "omm-maa") or simply the Alliance] was mobilizing for war. Osea had set up operations in Emmeria, much closer to the enemy, and the Aurelian military were in the middle of sending their own troops up that way. And the truth was that he absolutely loved it.

The whole idea of war made him tingle all over. Oh, the excitement of rushing into battle, rifle in hand, with a squad of soldiers under his command! Tanks would roll up behind him as the platoon commander shouted the command to fire. Aurelian JAS 39 Gripens would release their ordinance on top of the enemy position, brilliant walls of fire shooting up from the ground as if _el diablo_ himself opened up a portal from hell. Azrael would fire his light machine gun, the bullets spraying any enemy soldier unfortunate enough to be in the way. After the initial bombardment of mortars, cannons, and artillery fire, he would rush into the fray. With an army behind him, he would conquer the enemy position, risking his life to gain victory for his country!

He realized how childish these fantasies were, though he still could see himself as somewhat as a hero.

Throughout his entire life, Azrael had been put down. His father, step-mother, and various teachers constantly belittled him and reminded him of how "incapable" he was to be anything important. He was also raised not to settle for anything, and always inspire to be the best. Quite a contradicting and ironic childhood, he thought, but they both helped shape him into the man he was today.

He had proven them wrong. He had joined the military, bought a medium-sized two bedroom house, gotten married, and had a child, all by his current age of twenty-six. Azrael quickly glanced over at his wife, then faced the road once more. She was not the most beautiful girl in Aurelia, he would admit. She wasn't as well proportioned as other girls. Her nose was rather large, and her teeth weren't perfectly aligned, nor were they perfectly white. His truck wasn't brand new; a 2009 model, he'd just gotten the thermostat replaced last week, and a tire yesterday. It was also the only vehicle his family had. His house was old as well; the shingles on the roof were in bad need of repairs and the AC was not very powerful.

However, that did not mean that Azrael did not make a good life for himself. He loved his wife, he loved his daughter, and he loved his possessions. He could say that he was truly happy, and he made sure to rub it "all up in" his parents' face, as he would say.

Either way, he concluded that he would have to tell his wife soon about Aurelia's growing involvement in the potential war. He knew that there was an increasingly high chance that he could be stationed overseas, and he refused to let his family accompany him. Azrael decided simultaneously that it was probably best _not_ to tell her that he was looking forward to war as much as a child looked forward to their birthday presents. She would either slap him, ask why, make him sleep on the couch, or a combination of the three.

Staying relatively quiet for the rest of the ride, Azrael dropped his wife off at her job at a daycare center. One of the things Azrael loved about his wife was the fact that she was excellent with kids, and he wouldn't mind to have another one soon. He then drove himself to _Fuerto Miguel_, the military base he was stationed on, about twenty miles away from his home. Once on base, he headed towards the meeting place, where he was to report for training. He didn't expect what was to happen once he was inside.

As he walked through the open door, Azrael cringed as a large hand connected with his back at high speed. He turned around, ready for a fight, to see a familiar face. The man in front of him was a bit shorter than he was, though the man still had a demanding presence due to his sheer size. He was very stocky and solid, from his massive head down to his thighs, legs, and feet. What drew him the most attention, however, was perhaps his enormous yet oddly proportionate nose. He wore the same woodland camouflage utility uniform and red beret as the rest of the soldiers did, but instead of stripes on his shoulders, he had the silver bar of a 1st Lieutenant on both ends of his collar.

Azrael smiled and shook the man's hand firmly. "Henrique!" The man smiled in kind.

"_Tem sido um longo tempo__!_" exclaimed the man in Ratiguese ("It's been a long time!"), the other official language of Aurelia along with Sapinish. Being in the military, they were required to know both languages fluently. However, with different soldiers being from different parts of the country, they often switched between tongues. Both languages were very closely related to each other.

"Indeed!" Azrael said, also in Ratiguese. "What in the world brings you here?"

"The war, of course. Or at least the one that's about to start. You didn't hear? I'm the new platoon commander."

"Really? They've finally got rid of Fernandez? Uh….sir?"

"Please, don't call me sir. It makes me feel old."

"You've got it, _sir_."

As Henrique, whose full name was Francisco Antonio Henrique but was better known as "Chico", chuckled at the sarcastic remark, a corporal beckoned them and the other soldiers into the briefing room. It was rather small for the entire platoon to fit in, and many had to stand. Azrael was lucky and was able to sit down next to Chico. The many tables, as long as they were, did not have many seats under them, and Azrael wondered why. A Sergeant 1st Class was standing adjacent to the messy white board. A podium with the seal of the Aurelian Army on its front stood in the middle-front of the room, a few feet away from the board.

Just as Azrael was getting comfortable, the sergeant called the room to attention as a colonel walked into the room. He motioned for them to sit once he was situated at the podium. A corporal who had followed the colonel in the room pulled down a white screen suspended in a metal container directly above the white board. Another corporal powered on a projector suspended directly above the middle of the room in a metal holding fixture. The colonel dug in his pocket and brought out a small laser pointer.

The briefing began as it always did; boring. The colonel droned on about the same training exercise that they had been doing all month. They had only tweaked subtly it every time, a different target here, a route deviation there. Azrael's mind began to wander, first of why they called it a "briefing". It always seemed like it took an eternity. Then he thought deeper; why didn't anyone tell the colonel that he had a piece of lettuce stuck in his teeth? It had been there all week! Did this guy ever brush his disgusting teeth? Maybe people didn't want to seem rude. If no one else had told him at this point, he wasn't going to either. Azrael decided he was fortunate not to be the guy's wife. Was he even married? Who'd want to marry _that_ anyway? Maybe he was a hermit. He could even be a virgin. Maybe he was homose –

Wait!!

Did he leave the water running at home?!

It wasn't until the room was called to attention again did Azrael cease his overactive thinking. He quickly realized he had missed the entire briefing and hoped that nothing was changed. The colonel departed from the room and Chico walked to the front. He split the platoon up into five equal squads of ten with a sergeant in charge of each. Azrael was assigned as the squad leader of Charlie; Chico would also tag along with this squad.

"Alright," Chico announced, "Everyone to the armory."

The platoon arrived at the armory about 15 minutes later. They entered by squads, with Alpha and Bravo first; Charlie and Delta second; and Echo last.

Azrael relished touching the automatic rifle assigned to him. He looked it over carefully, looking for any new scratches or dents. The sergeant who ran the place had a tendency dropping the weapons; he was very clumsy. Finding none, Azrael quickly loaded the 5.56 millimeter ammo chains for his light machine gun as well as the 9mm bullets for his sidearm. Afterward, Azrael suited up in full gear: helmet, combat vest, gloves, communications and network goggle-headsets, and utility belt. He was the first of his squad to be ready, as it should have been, being the squad leader.

Once all of the squads were finished suiting up, Chico assembled them outside.

"Alright," he began, "I know I'm new around here, and most of you don't know me, but that's too bad. Out there, I own you. You will listen to me, or you will get killed. I want you to have that in your mind, no matter what. Training mission or not. Off of the battle field, I'm your best friend. On the battlefield, I'm your dictator. Understood? Good. Let's move out."

Azrael gladly lead his squad to the training grounds.

_Let the pain begin._


	4. Just Plain Wrong

Hey everyone. Sorry there hasn't been any updates recently, I've been busy with the first week of school (and now the second). I actually wrote this entire chapter today (August 31st, 2009) while in homeroom and couldn't wait to get home to publish it. So, without further _adieu_, I present to you Chapter Four of Behind the Uniform!

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Four: Just Plain Wrong  
**  
20 FEB 2016  
Vitoze Joint Air Base, Emmeria  
1339 hours

If there was one thing that Simon could not stand (!?), it was reports. Everything had to be reported, no matter what it was. If a subordinate disobeyed a direct order from a superior, someone, usually Simon, had to report it. If one had overslept and was late for his or her shift, it needed to be reported. The vending machine malfunctioned last week, by "robbing" everyone who used it of their cash, and although he did not have to report it himself, he was responsible for mailing in the numerous complaints from various soldiers.

One group of paperwork that Simon did not mind filling out, however, was promotional papers. Simon liked seeing young airman, soldiers, sailors, and marines pushing themselves to be something better. That was one of the few non-flying duties that Simon enjoyed.

Too bad that wasn't what he was filling out.

A very welcome, very relieving noise broke the annoying tapping of his fingers striking the keyboard. Simon lifted slightly out of his seat to reach for his noisy, vibrating phone. He pulled the entire base closer towards him, then picked up his phone.

"Captain Tale."

"Captain," his secretary's calm, sincere voice said, "you have a call on line 2."

"Alright, thank you."

Simon tapped the receiver to line 2.

"Captain Tale," he repeated.

"Hey love."

Simon rolled his eyes and a frown formed on his face.

"Hey, baby," he said with a pseudo-smile and a false I'm-so-happy-to-hear-you voice. He was no longer relieved and wished he had ignored the call. "How are you?"

"I'm guess I'm okay." His wife, Sharon, replied.

He hated her voice.

"Oh? Is that so? Just okay?"

Why did he pretend that he cared anymore?

"Yeah…I guess I'm just lonely. I miss you."

_No, you miss the sex and extra money._

"Aww, I miss you, too."

Bull. Shit.

"You know, I've been thinking a lot lately --"

"Oh?"

"—Huh?"

"No, go 'head."

"You've been in the Air Force for almost ten years, right? Like, eight or nine?

_Try twelve._

"Yes, that's about right."

"Aren't you bored? Aren't you annoyed with being stationed overseas all the time and dealing with all of that paperwork you told me about?"

_Actually, I'm annoyed with you all the time and I'm perfectly content mounds of paperwork and being thousands of miles away from Satan herself, as long as it gets my mind off of _you_._

"I guess I've never really thought about it."

"Well, I have, and I think you should retire. Come home! We miss you!"

_Who the hell is "we"?_

"Who the hell is 'we'?"

"You know……me and………..Samantha."

_Don't tell me you're a lesbian now._

"Samantha? Is that one of your friends?"

"That's……the name of our daughter, if she's a girl."

Simon felt as if someone had dropped his heart from 35,000ft into a bucket of ice water.

"You've got to be _fucking_ kidding me," he muttered accidentally.

"What was that?" Simon was fairly sure that she genuinely did not hear him, but who knew? She was cunningly deceptive, and that could very well be exactly what she wanted him to think.

"Uh….I said 'you're kidding, right?'" He made sure to keep his tone excited and falsified. "That's amazing!"

This was horrible! Now she would never leave. Also, if he never had the heart or courage to leave her when she committed adultery, he could never leaver her now, because a baby was a new, if unfortunate, responsibility for him.

_I knew I shouldn't have let her seduce me during leave! Goddamn it! I've been screwed...literally!_

"I'm…..I don't…….wow!" Simon exclaimed, genuinely astonished and at a loss for words.

"I know, isn't it great?"

_Yeah, maybe for you, you lazy, gold-digging, penny-pinching, confidence-draining, stress-inducing, conniving, deceitful bi—_

"I'm so happy!" he lied.

Simon particularly loved the fact that she picked names without consulting him.

"And see, that's why I want you to come home."

"Babe," – Simon cringed – "You know as well as I do that I cannot just leave. The 'Force is not going to let me retire at such an important and dangerous time. We're going war soon."

"And that's – never mind. You're right. I just miss you…so much."

"Ditto." His tone was purposefully flat an uninterested.

"…well, I guess I'll let you get back to work now. I love y—"

Simon hung up the phone in disgust. He was in shock and disbelief, though he didn't know why. _I should've seen this coming from a mile away! God, what an idiot!_ This was evil on so many levels.

First off, Simon knew she called him at work on purpose, because they both knew that something like this would completely ruin his day, which it did. In addition, he was positive that this was not the usual, random, spontaneous mischief that he was used to. Oh, no. This was planned, contemplated, outright evil. Sharon purposefully seduced him, using his lust for her to her advantage. _How could I resist?_ That part, he admitted, was his mistake. He was too weak to resist her, and he hated himself for it. She was not repulsive (not physically, anyway) and Simon felt as though he had hit the jackpot when he married her, as she seemingly had the "full female package (as his father had told him)" of beauty and smarts. He didn't count on her being Satan.

Simon concluded that Sharon had probably realized that he was growing tired of her and her ways and would eventually find the guts to leave her. That witch had devised a devious plan to keep him around for as long as possible. Simon also realized that she had exploited his soft spot for children. Now, he could not leave even if he wanted to. To add insult to injury, she pretended to miss him. Simon was fully aware that she had no desire whatsoever to see him or have him return to Osea. He knew the exact reason why, as well. Sharon was married to him, pregnant with his baby, and had full military benefits, all in addition to not being even the least bit concerned for his wellbeing. She must have not noticed that Simon wasn't an idiot, because he knew she was awaiting his "tragic" death in the war.

If Sharon divorced him, she would lose all military benefits as well as his monthly checks, money, etc. If he died, however, while they were still together, she would keep everything he had unless she remarried, which she was sure not to do. She was far too greedy for that.

Ultimately, her plan was to keep Simon around long enough for him to die.

_Unbelievable_, he thought. _This is just plain wrong._

Simon frowned, then relaxed his face, fearing that all of his frowning as of late would create early wrinkles. Glancing over at his bulletin board, which held a picture of him and the AWACS crew he frequently flew with, brought a small smile to his face. They all looked so very content with their lives. He then looked back at the evil, menacing phone o' death, realizing that he still needed to do his job. His personal life, as he was taught, was second to the mission and the lives of the people that worked with and under him. His top priority was his job, despite anything else that had, could, or would happen in his life, without failure, as if nothing had ever happened.

_I've got news for you, sweetheart,_ he thought,_ I'm not going anywhere._


	5. An Ominous Forecast

Hey peoples, sorry I haven't updated in awhile. I actually meant to post this chapter awhile ago and I thought I did until I looked at it today. So, here you go guys: Chapter Five of Behind the Uniform. Enjoy.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Chapter Five: An Ominous Forecast  
**  
20 FEB 2016  
Expressway No. 77, North Hangura  
1754 hours

Driving on the highway in this type of weather was rather challenging in such a small car, but Jeonghaneul ("Haneul Jeong" in the Osean given-family name style) was up to it. After all, her daughter was relying on her to pick her up from daycare, not to mention that she also needed to visit the supermarket for the ingredients for the _kimchijjigae_ that they were supposed to eat tonight. She could not allow them to go without eating dinner for the second night in a row.

As she took exit 101 onto Hahn Street and came to the first red light, she felt a wave of relief fall over her. The pounding rain began to let up and the sun struggled to break through the heavy layer of dark cumulonimbus cloud cover. The beads of cold water streamed down her small red vehicle, her wipers producing a slight squeak everytime they streaked across the windshield. The sweet scent of vanilla dispersed throughout the cabin when Haneul powered on the air conditioning, brining a slight smile upon her face. Maybe she would have a small bowl of vanilla ice cream in front of the television when her daughter was in bed tonight.

Haneul eyed her soldier-style bobble head doll atop her dashboard as it started to bobble more than usual. The ground and her car soon began to vibrate and shake excessively. She quickly rolled her window down, sticking her head out to look around. Above, a squadron of fighter jets streaked into, and out of, view, followed by what looked like three exceedingly large, flying, pointed potato chips.

Haneul frowned. The dark atmosphere that loomed over the city, she felt, correctly represented the current status of the world. Initially, it seemed as if the politicians and generals were just bickering with each other as they always did, just as the storm clouds seems as if they would only float over head for awhile and then disperse. However, as the barking, and thunder, became more frequent and more aggressive, so did the threat of war, just as the threat of a major storm increased. An arms race and military build up of the opposing countries, North Hangura (her country) and Sotoa versus Osea, Emmeria, South Hangura and Aurelia, soon followed, akin to the closing in of dark, ominous storm clouds and the increasingly deafening rumble of thunder. Just as the first silvery-violet streak of lightening struck the ground and a heavy sheet of rain and hail battered the city, one of the two sides would launch the initial offensive with the main force following suit. Of course, this "storm" would be only the most recent of a major series of "foul weather" that had torn the planet apart. In the past sixteen years, three major wars had been fought between various countries, the most recent one taking place no more than a year ago, extremely similar to the four of five major thunderstorms within the past few days. This last storm, however, proved to be, by far, the most violent of all. Unfortunately, the latter characteristic would bear the strongest resemblance, she feared.

Nevertheless, neither war nor weather conditions lasted forever. Something would happen, as it always did. Towards the end, hope, after being covered and suppressed for so long, would break through the heavens. Justice and peace would prevail, initially hindered by darkness, and would ultimately spell the end of the war. As if listening to her thoughts, the clouds appeared to dissipate all around her as only the sun, as well as a brilliant rainbow, remained.

The frown that had ruined Haneul's beautiful features transformed into a smile, and then into a deeper frown. She had a feeling, or rather, she was completely positive, that things were not going to be the same afterward.

_I hope he'll be okay, _she thought.

She found herself grasping the silver, heart-shaped locket that her husband had given her prior to his unit being sent to Sotoa to train with their military.

She had no idea at the time that he was never to return.

All that Simon had done since his disastrous "phone call o' death," as he put it, was watch the news. His sense of self returned since he regained his patriotic attitude and had recalled his entire reason for joining the military in the first place; to serve the people of his country by defending them in times of war. He, as well as everyone else, knew quite well that a war against the Zhangfei Collective Security Group, basically the Verusan equivalent of AOMA, was imminent. He anxiously awaited a surprise attack or declaration of war by Sotoa or North Hangura, or even one of the allied countries.

As he began dozed off on a couch in front of the television in the officer's lounge, a newsflash abruptly cut-off a commercial that was taking place. The same ancient anchorman that Simon had seen less than a month ago in another breaking news story appeared on screen as he shuffled his papers.

"This just in: officials from the nation of Osea, Sotoa, North Hangura, South Hangura, Emmeria, and Aurelia have agreed to meet together in the neutral Republic of Ustio to discuss current foreign relations and the prevention of a possible all-out war between the Anean-Osean Military Alliance and the Zhangfei Collective Security Group. This is the first time politicians from all six countries have met together in one place to discuss the current status of the world. Tensions are high, and debate is expected to be intense. We will bring you more information as it becomes available."

Well, at least it was something, he felt. It was not what Simon was hoping for, but they were at least making progress.

It then dawned on him that he must have had to be a sick, dirty man to crave war and unrest for his own personal glory. He proceeded to take a shower and scrub himself.

Afterward, Simon realized that he had not eaten anything since the day prior, and so decided to head off base for a bite to eat. He dressed himself in his civvies and was outside, headed to his puny, well-worn car in the parking lot when he heard a rather familiar voice call him.

"Sir?"

Simon turned around, wondering who it was, and was pleased as well as frightened to see Emily Weaver, the airman he had developed a crush on during the last training exercise. She was also off duty, wearing sandals, tight denim shorts, a plain white-tank top, and an even whiter sports bra that he could just barely make out through her shirt.

"Miss Weaver? Oh, hi. Can I help you?"

_Keep your cool, Simon. She's just another airman._

"Sir," she answered, "I think you dropped this." She held up a pair of keys linked together.

They were indeed his keys. _How in the hell did I drop those?_

"What? How did I manage – never mind. Thank you, Miss Weaver." Simon proceeded to walk over to her and realized that he could hardly keep his balance. His legs were good for nothing but food, as they felt like spaghetti. He comically thought that they would solve his hunger problem. Then the same type of thoughts he had about Emily while they were on the training mission resurfaced in his mind. He could just imagine gaining the courage to kiss her right then and there, and then take her hand. They would hop into his car and he would speed to the most secluded and remote area he knew. Once there, he would immediately cut off the engine as he laid his seat all the way back. The lack of space in the vehicle would make things difficult, but he'd been in smaller spaces before. As they began to kiss heavily, he would slip off their shirts, allowing his hands to feel all over her b–

"Thank you again, Miss Weaver," Simon said as he took his keys. He forced himself to look down into her eyes, her large, gorgeous, olive green eyes. She stared back at him without blinking. He felt his heart batter his ribcage to the point where he felt as though someone took a bat to his chest. His noodle-legs started to shake, and he used all of his energy solely to stand. Her luscious lips were calling him, and the fact that they were forbidden made them even more desirable, more delicious. He could feel himself becoming aroused, and he knew he had to leave immediately.

_You're about to be a father, you're thirty-three years old, and you're married to a beauti—_

It was at that point he ceased caring about his wife.

"Miss Weaver, you look famished. Are you okay?"

His confidence skyrocketed.

"Quite, actually, sir. Why?"

"Well, I was headed over to that sushi bar over on Causeway, an –"

"Sir, we're not allowed to fraternize, you know."

"Are you kidding? We're not fraternizing. Completely professional 'business' lunch. You're hungry, I'm hungry, we're not in uniform, and neither one of us have anything better to do. Or at least I don't. I would enjoy some company, anyway."

Simon could tell she was thinking hard, and he felt very confident that she would agree. All other issues on his mind were completely gone; his only concern was "befriending" Miss Weaver.

_Completely professional business lunch. Yeah, that's it. Nothing wrong with getting to know your subordinates._

Emily smiled, which blew his mind, and agreed to go with him. "Yeah, I guess you're right, sir," she said, "But I have to drop off a package at the post office. Can I meet you there at around two o' clock?"

"No problem. I'll see you there. Oh, and you don't have to call me sir."

"As you wish, Captain."

_Well, that didn't work._

"I'll see you there," were her last words before she departed. Simon quickly made his way to his car, grinning so much that he feared his facial tissues were on the verge of ripping apart. He felt so alive! His confidence and positive attitude had returned, and he had no idea that he had missed it so. As he started his car and pulled out of the parking lot, he concluded that the P.O.S. that he was currently in needed to be replaced as soon as possible. He glanced at the in-dash digital clock to the right of his steering wheel.

_I wonder if I can get a good deal in 47 minutes......._

Smiling, Simon proceeded to make his way to the nearest car dealership.

Virtro was often teased about his odd haircut, but decided he didn't care what the others thought as he brushed his teeth in the mirror. When he was born, his hair oddly had looked just like it did currently, and although it didn't stay like that for long, his father opted to continue to cut it in the same way because his mother found it cute. Most of his black hair was cut rather low and evenly, save for a distinctive tuft of hair sticking out in the front far left. If he pulled the strands down over his face, they would reach his upper eye. Isabel also commented that she liked it, setting his decision to keep the same hairstyle in stone.

Virtro hoped that it wasn't too obvious that he had a small crush on her, as no one seemed to have noticed yet. But, as he knew from prior experiences, there were always those who knew but didn't tell, and he feared that she may have been one of those people. If that was true, then only there could only be one of two reasons that she had yet to say anything toward him about it: she felt like he did but likewise was afraid to say anything, or, much more likely, she didn't like him at all and just didn't care that he had feelings for her. She did tend to be a bit cold-hearted towards romantic relationships and stupid people, both of which Virtro feared himself to want or be. He was certainly not the first officer to have feelings for her on base, and he seemed like he would only be the most recent of rejections if he ever found the courage to actually ask her on a date.

This, of course, only reinforced Virtro's decision to keep their relationship on a friendly level. They were also very close, to the point of being able to share a bed as if they were brother and sister. This was another reason why Virtro felt it better to stay only friends with her; he had no desire to ever ruin their wonderful relationship.

He spat out the saliva-toothpaste mix and rinsed his mouth, and the sink, out with cold water. He smiled; Virtro completely relaxed all over now that he'd taken both a nap and a bath as well as brushed his teeth. His off-white, toothy smile disappeared from view in the mirror as he ceased grinning, pondering about how he was going to continue suppress his feelings for her. _That would be wrong anyway,_ he thought. _I'm her wingman, not her lover. I can protect her…but only in the air._ His bittersweet thought was both enjoyed and loathed by him; maybe they would never get together, but he was still, in a sense, her guardian angel.

As he headed towards his closet within his on-base apartment, a familiar phrase, one that had just recently been brought into common usage within air forces around the globe, particularly in the Royal Emmerian Air Force, popped into his head.

_I guess she really can dance with the angels. And I can dance with mine._

The thought reminded him of the time she invited him to go to dance class with her after work. A few miles from the base was the main town of Vitoze, after which the base got its name. Emmeria, being almost as culturally diverse as Osea, had many locations within the country that were heavily influenced by other cultures. One such place was southwest Vitoze, which had a high Sapinish population. This was the area that Isabel and her father had emigrated to when she was fifteen years of age, and where she had lived until joining the Air Force. After touring the city, they attended her Sapinish dance class. Sapinish dancing was very personal and extremely intimate; Virtro enjoyed every minute of it. To a non-sapinish person, that type of dancing would most likely be a bit too touchy and would imply romantic tendencies; however, to the Sapinish, it was very normal indeed. That, he concluded, was the closest he could get to kissing her without breaking their friendship, and he was suddenly eager to go dancing with Isabel a second time.

With that, Virtro dressed himself in his civilian jeans, tee-shirt, and tennis shoes, and exited his apartment, with a mission in mind.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Just so you guys know, Chapter 6 won't be here for awhile; a lot of research needs to be done for it. So please bear with me. This fanfiction WILL be completed.


	6. Say When

Hey guys! I told you I wasn't dead. I know it's been since September since Chapter 5 was published, and I know you've been patiently waiting for a long time. I hope it doesn't disappoint. Here is Chapter 6!

* * *

Oil.

It was all about oil. An embargo had been put in place. Sotoa and North Hangura, with their Osean supporter of Leasath, had a full-house when it came to this game. Their ties with the oil tycoons in Yuktobania and the rest of Verusa gave them almost complete control over the natural resources in the area. There was no possible way that AOMA could sustain themselves on their own supply. The cost of gasoline had sky-rocketed from OSD $2.83 to almost $5 – more than a two dollar increase.

The higher cost of gas in turn made the military alliance much harder to sustain. Gas for civilians became extremely limited and rationed in small amounts as the military took it over. Oil and petroleum-based products would also become more expensive. Tensions of the people rose rapidly with the prices; the common people of Osea and Emmeria were quite ignorant in the matters of international politics and usually failed to stop and think of the reasons why the prices rose the way they did, despite massive media coverage of the embargo.

Civil unrest disrupted Osea and her allies. The people were blaming their government (especially after the government restricted the oil for military use) as they spewed out imbecilic cries of corruption and conspiracy, only proving how boorish they truly were. Anti-war protests and riots broke out and would certainly cause trouble.

Of course, Osea's brand new carriers (seeing as all of her previous carriers had been sunk in the Circum-Pacific War), as well as a few other weapon systems, would not be affected as heavily due to their alternative forms of power, such as nuclear power plants. However, the vast majority of powered assets would indeed be severely impaired. This would give the Zhangfei Collective Security Group (often referred to simply as Zhangfei) a huge advantage in the inevitable war. A war that could have been prevented had AOMA kept their greedy fat noses out of Verusan affairs, with their attempting to stop Sotoa's communist takeover of the entire Sotoan Peninsula and Romny further exacerbating the conflict.

Historically, these lands had been part of the glorious Sotoan Empire. These lands were rightfully Sotoan territory, despite relatively recent national and political divisions that dismantled their sovereignty. AOMA had condemned Sotoa's recent aggression towards her neighbors and attempted to occupy the rest of the peninsula, deploying "peacekeeping" and "policing" forces. Romny and the rest of the peninsula had previously negotiated with AOMA for protection from communist Sotoa and any other enemies (namely Yuktobania and Estovakia) as well as help in preserving their newly found independence and national identity. AOMA's insolence had led to this embargo; they had indeed brought it upon themselves. Attacking Sotoa would not be a good idea on their part, but it was the only move to make in this very dangerous war game. That way, Sotoa could distort the truth and claim that they simply "responded in kind" when assaulted, when it was truthfully Sotoa who made the first move.

It was simply a matter of when.

**Chapter Six: Say When  
**  
21 FEB 2016  
Rocosas, Aurelia  
1642 hours

"Go ahead."

Sergeant Azrael Florenzo smiled as his daughter happily entered the gate in which the amusement park ride was. His folded arms, wrapped tightly around diaphragm, attempted to shield him from the relatively bitter and unusually cold day, his flimsy civilian jacket doing nothing to warm him. His wife, purchasing banana pastels from a vendor, attempted to talk down the price of the pastries as he watched his daughter enjoy herself.

Azrael couldn't help but ponder how long it would be until the war began. His furrowed brow recreated the wrinkles he had began to form more and more often as of late around and in between his eyes as the intensity of his brain activity increased. He – and virtually every other service member in the world – knew it was but a matter of time. With that knowledge, he concluded that he should indeed spend as much time with his family as possible, as the option may soon not be available.

Cristina soon returned to his side, warm pastels in hand. After handing him one, she proceeded to consume one of the remaining pastries, the other being for their daughter. Although he was not looking at her, he felt her eyes on him, her sight lines dancing on his face, particularly concentrated around the entrenched wrinkles that marred the area around his sullen, depressed brown eyes and somewhat bushy brows.

"Babe…" she uttered, "…are you okay?"

He offered no response for approximately four seconds. She repeated her question, to which he replied "I'm fine."

"Something is wrong," she insisted. "What's on your mind?"

"Nothing," he responded as he restructured his face and turned toward her. "Nothing at all."

"Oh, right, and I believe that."

"As you should," Azrael said sarcastically, a slight smile forming.

"I'm serious!"

"So am I!" Azrael unfolded his now numb arms to place his hands on Cristina's waist. "It's nothing. Just pondering, as always." He pulled her in a bit closer before he leaned into to give her a short but sweet kiss. "I promise."

"If you say so…" Cristina said softly, her eyes wandering around on the ground as she allowed gravity to pull down on her head.

"Now, what's with you bein' all sullen and downtrodden?" Azrael proclaimed loudly, throwing his hands into the air. "It's a great day!"

"It's 9 degrees."

"Pfft, coldness does not equal a bad day. The family is together and we're supposed to be having a fun, relaxing family day together, regardless of the temperature, right?"

"I guess."

"Exactly!" Azrael picked her up, raising her screaming frame into the air at her expense. "So be happy!"

When he placed her back on the ground, she gave him a slap on the shoulder. "I hate when you do that!" she said, half laughing.

Azrael, snickering himself, responded with: "Lies! Lies and slander!"

"Not tru--!"

"LIES AND SLANDER!" he interrupted, announcing loudly to the world and drawing curious glances and/or resentful stares. She slapped him again on the same shoulder, beaming with happy frustration. He once again placed his hands on her waist, pulling her in. She wrapped her arms around his neck as she moved forward to kiss him. "You're right," she said afterward, "I love it when you do that. And I love you." In between smooches, he replied "I love you, too."

His tactic had worked. Azrael's spontaneous outburst and playful personality had once again gotten him out of dangerous, argument-prone conversation with his wife by distracting her with his love. His tactic reminded of their earlier days, before marriage, before Margarita was born, back to when his most dire concern was whether he passed his chemistry test with a satisfactory grade, when all he worried about was if he was a good enough kisser for Cristina. Back then, his tactic wasn't a tactic; rather, it was simply the way he acted.

The arrival of Margarita to the feet of her smooching, caressing parents snatched Azrael's mentality by catapulting it back to the present, and he began to reflect on the metamorphosis that had captured him since graduation from high school. His time in the army had considerably altered his perception of life and reality. His priorities shifted significantly, from his own welfare to that of his family. His relatively innocent and happy demeanor had been morphed and transformed into the concerned parent and dedicated soldier that inhabited his now slightly aged and more experienced body. His charm morphed from innate nature to reliable preventative tactics used on his wife. The only aspect that remained constant was his drive and determination to transcend above his limitations and expectations purely for the thrill of and ability to affirm that he had, in fact, done so. He assumed with great certainty that his essence would only alter – or mutate – further as he advanced in age and gained experience.

Cries from his daughter sliced through Azrael's absent-minded kissing and intense concentration.

"Papa, papa," she wailed, "I wanna go on that one!" She pointed to another one of the kiddy rides in the amusement park.

Azrael grinned as he broke from his wife to pick up his daughter, allowing her to ride on his shoulders. With his left hand on one of Margarita's dangling legs and his right holding Cristina's, Azrael couldn't resist allowing delightfully pleasurable thoughts replace his more depressing cognitions. His near-white teeth gleamed gracefully in the sunlight, breaking through the gray clouds, as he sauntered away with those he held most dear.

* * *

As he lay reclined in the passenger seat of Isabel's sporty convertible, Virtro finally realized what his squadron mates meant when they said he was a much better pilot than a driver. Among the squadron, he was known better as "Crash" rather than his call sign of "Roulette", and his atrocious driving record and innumerable number of tickets supported the moniker. After he had invited Isabel to dance with him, he had offered to drive them to the dance studio. However, he had managed to hit the cars that were in front of and behind him (he was parallel parked) as well as several trash cans. Isabel forced him to stop before they had even left the parking lot and kicked him out of his own car as well as taking it upon herself to park it on the far, uninhabited side of the parking lot. The ashamed Virtro quietly made his way to Isabel's vehicle, a red, Sapinish-built sports coupe with a convertible top. He felt as though it matched her personality perfectly.

It bugged Virtro that she was the one who was driving. He felt as though his "gentlemenliness", as he put it, had been threatened; that he was to drive to the destination, pay for it, and drive back from it, as his father had taught him.

"Gentlemenliness is next to Godliness," Virtro heard his father preach in his head.

"That word doesn't even exist!" Virtro would respond, almost always receiving a scowl immediately afterward.

Of course, Virtro thought, it may have been better for him to feel like the spoiled one this time, rather than accidentally killing both of them in a traffic collision.

Virtro sat himself up as Isabel pulled into the parking lot of the dance studio. The studio itself was owned by Isabel's cousin Eduardo Rodriguez. He closed early tonight in order to allow Virtro and Isabel to have it to themselves (as Isabel was teaching Virtro, who preferred not to embarrass himself in front of other people). The words "Amor de Esapiña," literally meaning "Love of Sapin" but translated as "Sapinish Love", was in red, cursive, glowing neon lights directly above the entrance.

_What a sappy name, _Virtro thought, as he usually did anytime they came here. _Hopeless romantics, the lot of them._

Not that he really cared what the name was; all he desired was right next to him, and if this is where she wanted to go, then he had no problem whatsoever.

Isabel parked the car in the space closest to the studio, remembering to back in rather than pull in. Although it was not much of a difficult feat for most people, Virtro was amazed. Had he been the one driving, he probably would have backed right into the building. He exited the car after she turned it off, remembering to grab the dancing shoes he had bought earlier that day at PayFew. Although he couldn't drive her to the studio like he wanted to, he could still open the door her, and he did. The warm air in the studio brought to life his frozen nose, as well as the rest of his body, when they finally entered.

"It's been awhile since I've been in here."

Virtro noticed the floors had been recently waxed, as they were reflecting the bright studio lights. Mirrors dominated the walls, with leaning rails lining them. A smile crept to his face as the familiar scent of "Amber Enchantment" filled his nostrils. It drove him absolutely wild, and it was the same scent that Isabel wore. He quickly shifted his attention to removing his bulky jacket before he became aroused and horribly embarrassed himself. Underneath, Virtro donned a rather dashing outfit indeed. A long-sleeved, maroon dress shirt embraced him, his black waistcoat fitting snuggly over it. A flashy silver watch, accompanied by an equally flashy necklace and ear piercing, complemented his already-radiant attire. Long black pants and gleaming dance shoes completed his lively fashion ensemble.

After turning around, however, he naturally felt very repulsive. Virtro had not seen Isabel's gown until now, and he was thankful that he hadn't, for he welcomed the brilliant surprised that he received. Isabel wore a vibrant red dress, knee-length, with luminous sparkling accents covering it in its entirety. Her makeup was applied flawlessly. Her lipstick matched her dress and heels. The eyeliner surrounding her big, lustrous brown eyes made them pop (along with the mascara), while her blush was nearly as red as the rest of her outfit. Virtro smiled like a boy opening a present on Christmas Day.

"…you look stunning," he told her.

"_Gracias_," she responded. "As do you."

"No, no, I look good. You're way beyond me."

Isabel simply smiled and blushed, turning around and heading toward a small radio in the back right corner of the studio. Virtro could not help but glance at her curvaceous figure, her form-fitting dress augmenting her already-voluptuous shape. Blood flooded into his head(s), flushing his face and tightening his pants. Virtro's heart worked harder than a formula one racing engine. He, again, had to turn his attention elsewhere before he could no longer fit his trousers.

Music filled the air as Isabel pressed play on the radio. The song that came on had a quick tempo and featured an intricate classical guitar (played in a classical Sapinsh style). Isabel's hips seemed to move by themselves as they quickly developed a mind of their own. She stood up straight and backed up as the music possessed her being; Virtro purposely faced himself towards the door so that he could not see.

"_Ay, __¡ven aquí, Papí!_" Isabel beckoned, motioning for Virtro to come toward her when he rotated to face her. "The music is taking me over, I must dance!"

Virtro grinned and hurried over, taking her hands into his. They shuffled into their starting positions, waiting for the correct time to start.

Whatever had possessed Isabel earlier had now taken over Virtro as well. His mind seemed to shut down, the workers of his mental essence preparing for closing. The music took over his body, his mind, his soul. The steps that Isabel taught him previously came rushing back to him like a tardy freight train. He followed through on his every step, complementing Isabel's effortless motion. Their connected hands served as the spiritual node between their souls, binding their minds together. They were no longer Isabel and Virtro. They moved as one, thought as one, felt as one. They were one.

They didn't know it, but at that very moment, the outside world, ignorant of their quixotic masquerade of dance, descended into chaos.

The war had begun.


End file.
